A ricocheting heart that disembarks passionless will inevitably decay. Secret-keeping has calcified my heart and for each scar there is a risk that I will never take, a life that I will never live, and a regret that will swallow me whole. Prolific, my tears have exceeded their worth. I, who am more conscious of hunger than thirst have still not resolved to dream. Starvation calls upon my baser instincts. It’s not simply psychosomatic, the need for fulfillment occupies all absence. Closeted, the child within cowers in darkness. I know that denial alienates. Still, I pull from these ashen clouds that I might become a less visible target. All my angels have fallen like discarded syringes. I hide their bodies in plain sight, oblivious to the enormity of my affliction. Any occasion could prove a trigger but I am not a prophet so I hide from everyone and everything waiting for my turn to die. One ought to take their time when committing suicide because if done properly it happens only once.
About the Poet:
Yves K. Morrow lives in Sweden with her husband and soon-to-be teenage daughter. Mindlovemisery reflects on the subjects most extensively explored in her poetry. Mind – philosophy, psychology, mental illness, society / Love – loss, unrequited, infatuations and obsessions, sex, true love, new love, relationships of all sorts both dysfunctional and sublime / Misery – childhood trauma, depression, living with PTSD, the search for meaning, loneliness, spiritual dilemmas, grief, social ineptitude, etc. Aside from writing and inspiring others to write, Yves enjoys reading, training, dancing poorly, absurdity and sarcasm.
Full of anguish that is palpable in its familiarity.
LikeLiked by 2 people